Page 7 of Moonlit Temptation

I curl my fingers into a fist, the sharp bite of my nails grounding me. I blink again, and his face is gone. His memory slinks back into the carefully locked box I keep buried inside my chest with his name on it.

He stops within a foot of me, staying in the street, on the other side of the wrought-iron fence. He flashes what Nana Jo called agood ol' boygrin. All charm and artfully curated bad boy vibes.

His aura would be a true red. The fiery color of the sky when the sun says its final farewell before it sinks into the horizon. A field of bright red poppies swaying in the breeze.

The girls next to me are talking in hushed whisper-shouts, but all my attention is on the man in front of me.

He slides his sunglasses off and hooks them in the vee of his T-shirt. His bright, mossy-colored gaze flicks all over my face, pausing on my lips before springing up to my eyes.

His lips quirk into a smirk as he looks at me, and I'm annoyed by how charmingly effective it is. He leans forward a little, like he's letting me in on a secret. “So, can I get your number?”

I blink a few times and stare at him. I hate that a tiny balloon of expectation started to inflate when he walked over. Because his seriously shitty pickup line popped it faster than my sister's famous stiletto style nails.

“Seriously? After all that show”—I twirl a circle in the air with my index finger—”I was expecting something more thancan I get your number.” I drop my tone deep in a poor imitation of his voice.

One corner of his plush lips pulls up higher on the right. “Is that so?”

I drop my hand from the air and slip it into the pocket of my cutoff jean shorts. I'm thankful I changed clothes after work, unwilling to risk one of my favorite dresses getting ruined from hauling boxes and suitcases. “Yep. You kind of had this whole motorcycle bad boy thing going, and I gotta say, I'm disappointed. You had such potential.” I twist my lips to the side to stop the smirk from spreading wide.

A surprised chuckle spills from his mouth, and I swear to god, his eyes freaking sparkle before he tips his head back in genuine laughter.

I'm blaming it on the angle of the sun.

“Damn, sweetheart,” he says, running his hand down his short beard. Mirth lightens his face. “You don't pull any punches, yeah?”

I lift a shoulder in a half-hearted shrug.

“I can respect that.” He curls his hands around the top of the fence and flashes me a boyish sort of grin. And goddamnit, it's just as charming as his smirk. He leans toward me, the muscles in his arms bunching and flexing. “So, I'm going to level with you . . .” he trails off, clearly fishing for my name.

But Nana Jo didn't raise me to give in to every pretty face I met.Make them work for it, Eve.I hear her voice in the back of my head as clearly as if she's standing next to me.

I shake my head a little ruefully. “You're going to have to work harder than that, playboy.”

“Nova,” he says instantly.

“Like Supernova?”

“Oi, your time's up, Casanova! The first round is on you,” a guy from across the street yells.

I glance overCasanova's shoulder to see the guy yelling drop his hands from around his mouth to flash me a goofy sort of grin. In our brief conversation, more people have pulled up outside The Wild Boar. Smoking, talking, and doing that man handshake sort of hug thing.

I bring my gaze back to the man in front of me. I arch a brow. “Casanova, hm?” I guess my playboy assessment was spot-on.

“Well, shit,” he drawls, dragging his palm over the back of his neck. He looks at me from underneath his long, dark lashes. He looks both contrite and cocky—and I almost roll my eyes at how effortlessly he pulls it off. “This isn't looking good for me, is it?”

I give in and roll my eyes, a little scoff slipping free.

“Next,” a deep voice yells from behind me.

Surprise dances along my shoulders when I realize that I was so wrapped up in our . . . whatever that was, I completely missed how the line moved on behind me. I didn't even notice the lack of the whisper-shouting from the girls.

“Shoot, I'm sorry,” I tell the guy behind me. He just bobs his head, never pulling his focus from his phone.

I walk backward a few steps, toward the ordering window, keeping my gaze onCasanovain front of me. Is that his first name? Last? Or some nickname because he runs through girls like water.

Ugh.

I hate that the last possibility doesn't deter me as much as it should.

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